Mother and I
by Madeener
Summary: Auel meets a woman he can call mother. She sees a rebound in his eyes. Only by the help of each other's hands can they rise above the shadow, and receive, for awhile, glimpses of light.
1. Prologue

**Disclaimer: **I do not own Gundam Seed in any fashion. I own all names of characters/places/etc. except those which appear in Gundam Seed or its sequel, Gundam Seed Destiny.

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**Prologue**

The spiritless buzz of working ventilation shafts dominated the almost silent chamber, much like that of a hissing snake waiting patiently for prey. The walls painted a stainless shade of white harmonised with the outfits of the chambers speechless occupants. Stoic they stood; arms unflinching; and in their fists, identical knives shone, reflecting the images of solemnity of each other's faces on their lustrous blade surfaces.

A man with rectangular framed glasses entered the overhanging glass room. All heads rose. It was about to begin.

"Numbers 10384 through 10414, please step onto the test ring," he said, voice rough from electronic distortion. Thirty white-clad children obeyed, stepping onto the elevated center stage. Mechanically, they formed a circle along the stage's circumference, taking care to stop an equal distance from their neighbours. An umbrella of a cage was lowered upon them, releasing subtle hints of static from its charged iron bars. It was a device to ensure no one got in, or out.

Several more figures in white coats entered the glass deck, shaking hands and exchanging words inaudible to those below. In a merry mood, they took their seats. The bespectacled white-coat asked for the permission of who appeared to be a director and he responded, nodding his pudgy head in approval. "Please begin the experiment."

A coarse rendition of Mozart's 40th Symphony played over the archaic sound system present in the chamber, mocking the screams of agony echoing dissonantly into the cacophony below. Blood spurted about like water from a thumb-blocked hose as the less physically gifted jumped onto those of larger size, ruthlessly stabbing and tearing at limbs. Necks were slit; arms bitten into; fingers and toes severed – it was a like gratuitous orgy of violence and death, but for them, a battle for their lives. Above, their handsomely dressed audience continued to spectate the marvel that was a pervasion of human rights. They did not care. Moreover, they cheered in ecstasy, unable to contain their lust for 'entertainment'.

Such was a normal day in the Earth Alliance's Lodonia Laboratory – home to the 'Extended' organic weapons programme.

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**A/N – **My debut entry on Hope you like it ;).


	2. Meetings

**Disclaimer: **Refer to 1: Prologue.

**Warning! **This chapter contains explicit use of coarse language and other potentially offensive features. Please be prepared should you choose to read it.

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**Meetings**

Jazzy saxophones and light percussion mingled wonderfully with the hearty chatter present in La' Pierre's Bar. The atmosphere was one of savvy elegance, having more than half its patrons wearing jewelry of intricately crafted nature. People numbered many, holding champagne glasses and toasting without caution; and the lobby glittered, shining like stars the brilliant stars at night. La' Pierre's was a bar for the glamorous and of course, the wealthy.

Like a blemish on treated skin, a lone woman sat shakily at the bar counter, her elbows rooted to its surface to keep her collapsing body upright. At her side, a queue of empty liquor glasses told tales of her night. The woman's name was Izabella Neider – Izabel to her friends, if she had any. Quietly, she took a gulp from her seventh glass, eyes betraying no sign of stupor over their panda-like eye bags. A hapless lad approached her, uninformed of the happenstance of unfortunate events synonymous with the act.

"Wow, you look like a heart which needs savin' t'night!" said the young man. He wore an attire of high expense. Behind him, a pack of similarly dressed men cheered shamelessly on. "Wanna' talk 'bout it? Cordon Bleu on meh'." Hopping onto the neighbouring seat, he planted a pair of bills on the table and slid them away. The tender eyed him suspiciously, but took them without question anyway. He had an unpleasant disposition which betrayed arrogance through his sanctimonious smile, pushing his intent into the realm of the obvious: He was on a whore hunt. "Name's Taylor," he announced.

"Hi, Taylor. Thanks for the drink but I'm kinda' in a bad mood right now. So, could you, say, piss off?" scoffed Izabel, her voice leaking venom. Roars of jeers aroused from Taylor's spectators, prompting him to lift a finger in their faces in a universal sign of contempt. The music pulsed deeply in the background as he buried his failure, and then took another shot.

"Harsh! Won't gimme' a chance?"

"Nope."

"None at all?"

"Zip, nip, nadda." She took another sip from her glass, hoping he would sense her impassivity.

Taylor grunted, clearly frustrated. A different approach, he knew, had to be taken to win him his reward. Edging close to her, he whispered into her ear: "Listen. I know you're just lookin' for a fuck ere'. Drinkin' yr'self silly an' all. I don't wanna' go home feelin' lonely tonight so I tell you what: Throw me one and I'll give half a grand. Gotta' deal, sweety?"

Izabel rolled her eyes. "Sorry, Taylor. I'm not cheap enough for you to stick your 'S' sized penis into. Go find a real whore over at Hillerton."

Laughter belittling the previous tenfold erupted from his friends like a volcano. Taylor was stunned. His face flushed a crimson red, overloading from embarrassment and anger. He raised an arm at her, fist curled up like a rock. "Why you lil' bitch!" he thundered, bringing down his blow on the apparently oblivious blonde.

But another caught his before impact.

"Is there a problem here?" asked the owner of the intruding hand. Subtly, he squeezed Taylor's hand, smirking as he spotted an attempt to hide a wince. Taylor shook his head pleadingly and the man released his grip. He grunted before rejoining his acquaintances, all now giving the man equally baneful stares, but the man ignored them. He took a seat at Izabel's side and beckoned the tender for whisky. The melodic tune of the in-house band saturated the bar's atmosphere once more.

"Captain Heroic saves the day," Izabel remarked satirically.

"You were going to bag him one if I was a second late, weren't you?"

Izabel snorted. "You know me too well." The man did not comment.

For awhile, they said nothing save taking the occasional sip of their respective drinks. Izabel had tried to catch a glimpse his eyes, but the gleam on his spectacles made that task impossible. She assumed that he was staring at the display of liquor bottles in front of them, as she had been doing for the past several weeks. What merit it held, she did not know; but certainly, it was better than facing the world – the world which was presently besieged by aimless conflict. He broke their silence by telling her she had been short listed for 'the Guardian programme', but she objected the nomination, taking little more than three seconds to express her reluctance.

The man eyed her deviously. "Izabel, Isaac has been gone for a month. It's time for you to move on."

"Shut up."

"Face it. He's gone."

"Shut up, Hendrik." Rougher this time.

"He's not coming back and he won't want to see you in this state either, Izabel. You have to move on!"

Izabel snapped. "Shut the hell up, asshole!" she yelled. "I haven't mourned and cried enough, okay? Doesn't having a pussy entitle someone to a few months for self pity anymore?" She paused, realizing what she said was absurd. She lowered her head in defeat, cupping her face in her skinny hands. "Sorry," she said. "I'm drunk," and began to sob.

Reaching into his breast pocket, Hendrik pulled out slovenly folded piece of tissue and dropped it over Izabel's unkempt hair. She wiped her tears behind the cover of her free hand. He waited for her to calm herself, and then said, "You'll want to take the candidate I got for you."

"Try me," she said, relatively calm again.

Retrieving his wallet from his trousers, he extracted a hand-sized photograph from its black leathery compartment and slid it to Izabel over the counter. Izabel's eyes widened. Picking up the photograph, she stared at it in awe, jaw left hanging. Hendrik waited on her patiently again, not making a sound till she passed her trance.

"I'll take him," she declared with a stern face.

"Knew you would," Hedrik smirked. "I'll bring you to see him after this."

Izabel simply nodded, turning her attention back to the display of bottles before her. She did not know if what she was about to do was right, but rather than muse, she chose not to care. Crinkling the ice in her glass, she could not help but feel that the music at La' Pierre's had became a notch less annoying.

-----

Their journey took them along the beach. It was a cloudy, moonless night, one which made the usually sparkling ocean appear stagnant and lifeless. They had been on the road for close to an hour. Izabel sneezed, having received the caress of an ice cold sea-breeze. She pulled her cardigan closer to her chest and folded her arms, holding on for dear life. Peering at the view through the side window of the convertible, she remarked to Hendrik how it felt so… desolate.

Hendrik stole a glance at her. "Sorry," he said, choosing to ignore her remark. He flipped a switched and a canvas roof slowly covered them with a mechanical hum, leaving only a tiny hole for air. When they came to a junction, he steered off the main road onto one laden with sand.

They came to a ruined fence. Hendrik drove on, caring little for the earth-stained signboard bearing the words: "ENTRY PROHIBITED. Military Zone. Trespassers will be shot on sight." He moved slowly from that point, taking great care not to drive into cracks of negligence and dirty piles of debris. A series of proud Aegean pillars flanked their path, standing solemnly as they always had from ages long past, albeit with significantly less grandeur. There were no bullfrog croaks, no grasshopper whistles. The place was almost completely barren, save the occasional rain-starved tree which rustled with passing gusts.

Hendrik halted in front of a wall – _the_ wall. Even though she had come upon it countless times, Izabel still looked upon it wondrously, as if having her virgin encounter with it time and time again. It was ancient, with marks of age decorating its countenance head to toe. Its façade had been, thankfully, spared from the artistic well-wishes of bored vandals. Within it, a handful of concrete crosses stood tall. Lodonia was once a Christian chapel.

"Please surrender ID and thumbprint for identification," called a robotic voice, breaking the long silence. Hendrik extracted a glossy plastic card from his breast pocket and inserted it into the machine's feeding cavity. Then he pressed a thumb against the emerald display. The machine glowed erratically: blue; velvet; red and finally, emerald again. A large 'CONFIRMED' appeared in bold over the display and his card was dispensed. "Welcome, Doctor Loussier," it said. The automated gate before them moved slowly with a creek of age, withdrawing to the left for the convertible to pass. Hendrik entered the compound.

Izabel remarked on how the air still smelt as stale as ever, and Hendrik nodded in agreement. He drove toward the large, shallow bunker in the middle of the compound. Even though it was two o'clock in the morning, light from the surrounding run-down buildings was still abundant: some flickering, some not. A series of moss covered tubes smoked drowsily toward the sky, working woefully to ensure a steady power supply for the facility.

He drove down an entrance in the side, leading to a spiral which circled downward. Finally, they arrived at the underground car park. Hendrik parked his car in a dimly lit corner and killed the engine. A wave of queasiness overcame Izabel upon her exit. The air was smacked with hints of oil and fetid garbage. She found her car sitting lethargically in the lot she had left it a full month ago under a veil of dust and grime. She sighed – the time it would take to clean it up was not going to be short.

"You still remember where your office is, don't you?" questioned Hendrik as they walked toward the lift lobby. Izabel rolled her eyes – 'duh'. "Good," he smiled. "I'll meet you at the stairs in ten. Better wear your lab coat too. Chilly out there tonight."

Silence reigned in the lift, them avoiding each other's gaze and observing the embellishment on the sides. It stopped with a _'ting'_ and they made their way out, walking in opposite directions along the brightly lit corridor. She walked with her head down, staring dreamily at the symmetrical pattern woven the velvet floor. "Ah," she exclaimed softly as she came to a dirty woolen carpet, and bent down to slip her hand under it, extracting a card from beneath. Standing up, she faced the door and inserted the card into the cavity present above the handle. Three blood red diodes turned green with a beep, prompting her to enter.

The place had been just liked she remembered it. Stacks of folders and assorted documents were left idly in a corner, beatified by an enormous collage of old photographs stuck to the wall overlooking them. A golden picture frame stood poised on her laminated wooden desk. In the picture, a man and woman smiled jovially with the twinkling Mediterranean Sea in the background. One had been her, in a state of joy she had long forgotten, and the other was a man – the man who _was_ her lover.

_Isaac,_ she thought, placing a hand over her mouth. Nostalgia overwhelmed her and she felt tears threaten to spill, but now was not the time. She was going to be late. Forcing them back, she picked up her white lab coat and made haste for the bunker's front entrance. It was time to meet her new assignment.

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Hendrik pushed his spectacles up the bridge of his nose. "You're late," he said. Emerging from the shelter of the warmed bunker, a freak gust caught her by surprise and her teeth betrayed a brief chatter. Quickly, she buttoned up her overcoat.

He handed a jet black ruffle bag to her, and simply said: "Your 'survival pack'." Izabel took a peek at the contents under her low-battery torchlight as they walked. There were admission and instructional documents, a GPS tracking device, a service pistol and bullet magazines – the regular inventory of a field operative. However, a suspicious black device in a tight plastic wrapping caught her eye. It appeared like a joystick with a large, bright red button on one side and a smaller, blue button on another. The blue button had a protective cover over it, indicating that accidental pushing was undesired.

"What's this remote control thing?" she asked Hendrik.

"They got a capsulate device planted somewhere in their frontal cranium. Red button's for frying a few brain cells. Blue one's for termination."

"What? We actually plant bombs in their brains?"

"Can't be helped. I'd rather do them the favour than them return it to me," he paused, musing for a second. "Your call, of course."

Izabel did not complain. She had little objection against such exorbitant safety measures, having witnessed first hand the destructive capabilities the institutes' charges. Yet, she did not think of it as right. Hypocritical? Perhaps. But war decreed she needed some way to put gruel on her plate, regardless of how. Money, a nice possession to have in times of peace, was no more useful than firewood with the blessing of inflation. She was lucky to have her job, and only a threat from The Fates would make her consider resignation.

They entered the worn down building and hanged their coats on a line of undone screws left protruding from cracks on the discoloured interior wall. On a rickety old desk, a pair of boot-clad feet were crossed, their unshaven owner dressed in an odourous, dirty uniform, soundly asleep. Upon his belly, a magazine laid open, its covers featuring a pair of unclothed ladies, displaying their assets in false ecstasy. Izabel cringed in disgust. Slowly, they made their way up a flight of stairs in tip-toes, saving the occupants from incessant floorboard creaking. Finally, they came upon the door with a rusty metal panel, the characters 'AUL10388' etched upon its surface. It was left slightly ajar.

Hendrik knocked on the door gently. "Fuck off," said a voice from the inside. It was the voice of a child. Undeterred by the juvenile's display of rebellion, Hendrik opened the door with a casual swing and a dusty paperback landed on his head, dropping to the floor and landing again in a messy posture. It was a trap of mockery.

An earthen jug filled with water sat stoically on his tea-table, accompanied by a similarly coloured chipped cup lying askew. A flickering naked light hung dangerously from the tattered roof, its occasional failure blending elegantly into the room's gloom glory and stench. How could anyone survive in such a place, Izabel did not know. "Told you to fuck off, Specs. I can tell it's you from your bloody smell," said a boy lying on the solitary bunk. He lied on his side facing a wall, one hand holding up his head of cyan shaded hair, the other held a paperback for reading.

"Number 10388," Hendrik said, unfazed. "Henceforth, you shall be under the guardianship of Doctor Izabella Neider," he paused for response. None came. "She will be the single agent who determines your schedule and punishments. You are obliged to comply with this arrangement."

The boy snorted repulsively. "First you make me kill the others, now you give me a nanny? Thought I had till Saturday to sleep around."

Hendrik merely shrugged. "Failure to comply shall force the administrative board to consider your termination…"

The boy threw his paperback against the wall with a violent force. Gathering to his feet, he turned, and with demonic speed, he charged at Hendrik with eyes red from feral rage and fists curled into balls, screaming, "Shut the fuck up, yer' son of a bitch!"

But suddenly, he stopped. "Arrrghhh!" he screamed. He dropped to the ground, tugging at his hair and squirming in agony. Tears formed at his eyes and urination soaked his pants – his body had given up all restraint. Veins appeared vividly upon his skin, screaming from convulsion. It was Izabel, holding down her red button. She let go, and came up to get a closer look at the one she had tortured. Through the perspiration and heavy panting, she saw a face once so familiar to her. She thought of Isaac and swallowed hard, trying her best to hold back tears once again. And then she said: "You sure have a filthy mouth there, kid. I want you to clean it."

He appeared unconscious for a moment, but motioned his lips eventually. The boy smirked with his eyes still closed. "I'll do it if you promise not to use your new toy on me."

"I don't think so. How 'bout you promise to clean up and I won't use it?" Izabel was never one to be pushed around in a tango of words.

The edges of his smirk dived downward. "Fine. Beats getting nothing."

With a series of cracks, he tried to rise to his feet, arms supporting him as he laboured against bodily pain. His body wavered for a moment, but he retained his posture and then shook his head, trying to rid his drowsiness. Upright, he limped towards his pile of damp clothes left uncared for in a corner, intent on replacing his soiled outfit.

Hendrik watched the boy toil on for awhile, eventually finding the ordeal of little interest. "I'm going to check on my charge next door," he said. "Don't forget to fill in the administrative papers. And make sure you get some sleep tonight."

"Kay," Izabel nodded. "See you tomorrow."

With that, he left the room. The boy spat rudely as he did. "Thank god you're my nanny," he told Izabel. "I'd have died trying to strangle that guy."

Izabel's eyebrows rose in curiousity. "You know him?" she asked.

"Hell yeah! Put me in a cage with some others and made us duke it out. Only I got out moving," he said, changing his pants with ill-regard for privacy. Izabel did not flinch. "I pray for the one who gets him as nanny."

Izabel could not help but notice the how he seemed to neutral toward her. It seemed surreal, considering the fact that she had just made him stain his pants. But then again, what would they know about embarrassment or manhood? They were probably pre-occupied fully with the daunting task of staying alive. She asked him if he disliked her.

The boy rolled his eyes and snickered at the apparently moot question. "Lady, you're an angel compared to the other dic- I mean, 'care-takers' around here," he said. Then he raised his shirt and showed her his belly. "Your toy is nothing compared to what did this."

Izabel had to bite her lip. Upon his skin, scars were aplenty. They came in a multitude of shapes and sizes, crisscrossing like Chinese calligraphy. "Got nineteen so far," the boy boasted. She noticed an ugly black spot on his shoulder. It was the mark of a cigarette burn.

Letting go of his shirt, he recovered his old paperback and resumed reading, caring little for hospitality. She motioned to his tea-table, studying a stack of volumes neatly placed in a corner. They were fairy tales, carrying titles such as 'Snow White', 'The Three Little Pigs' and 'Beauty and the Beast'.

"If you're wondering why I'm reading those cartoon books, it's because I don't have a di- erm, a 'dee-tionary'," he said, lacking reason to face her in conversation. "This is all I can read."

_Of course, _Izabel thought. _You're never been to school, have you?_ She felt pity swell up inside her and swallowed, wanting to do something – anything – for him. "Tell you what," she said. "Let's make a few 'deals'."

"Spill it."

"Firstly, you never disobey me; and I'll never send you to the slammer."

"If it doesn't involve those 'experiments', I'm cool."

"You've passed that stage, kid," she reassured him. "No more kill games."

"Cool. Next?"

"You promise to write stuff when you're free, and I'll teach you to read."

A hyena's laugh left his lips. "Even better."

"Finally, you address everyone in the facility respectfully, and you get a ration card everyday."

"Wow! You _are_ great!" he scoffed, trying to hide his actual excitement.

"Good," she said in a mock chirpy tone. Replacing her punishment device in her ruffle bag, she extracted a folder and a pen. "Now, you need a name."

The boy paused for a moment. "I've never had a name. White-coats call me 10388. The others call me 'Little Bluey'."

"No good," she shrugged off. Then she remembered the panel nailed to his door. _A-U-L._ "How about Auel?"

"Whatever you like," he replied indifferently, stretching his supporting hand sideward to elaborate his thought on the matter.

She wrote down the name with her surname next to the marker titled 'Name' and stowed the material back into the bag. "That's all then, I'll see you tomorrow at eight. Meet me outside the mess hall." She made for door, but before she could close it, Auel called out to her in what seemed to be a pleading tone.

"Wait," he yelled, still not turning to face her. "I want to make one last deal."

Izabel's eyebrows rose in interest. "Shoot."

"I've been reading this book here called 'The Ugly Duckling' for about three days now. And I feel– how do you say," he paused, "well, I just feel something."

He remained silent for a moment, but Izabel waited. He was letting her into his world already.

"So can I, er, call you 'mother'?" he asked sheepishly. "And I'll do my clothes without no one telling." Izabel was taken aback. Pondering for a moment, she weighed that it could do little harm, if not none at all.

"Sure," she said. "Good night, Auel."

"Good night, mother."

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**A/N – **I'd like to credit Marching Madly Onward's piece entitled Gamma Glipheptin as my inspiration for writing this story of my own. Thanks to everyone who reviewed ;). Lots of thanks to my beta-reader + editor **maskerade**.


	3. Basketball

**Disclaimer: **Refer to 1: Prologue.

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**Basketball**

She tip-toed along the silver sand beach, feeling its softness surround her toes, the warm, pleasant breeze caressing her face and sending her long blonde hair aflutter. She felt light, and it was a great feeling, and she felt like she could stay there forever, like a coconut tree, savouring the breeze and taking in the smells of the sparkling sea till its time came to pass.

She dipped her feet into the water, feeling the cold, and she loved it; and with her hands in a cup, she dipped them in and splashed the water at the man dressed in the flowery linen shirt, and he did the same. They played like that for awhile, running in circles and splashing and tasting the salty bitterness of the water that met their lips, and when they finally tired they retreated back onto the sand to sit. There was no other soul in sight, save the gulls, and no man-made structure they could see, save the sand-castle they had built earlier. The beach was a peaceful place.

"It's beautiful, Isaac," she said, looking over the horizon.

"Not as beautiful as you," Isaac whispered. When he said it, it felt like a blessing, and the fire inside her burned with glee. He touched her chin; she touched his wavy brown hair, and looked into his bright blue-green eyes, and then their lips and tongues met in passion. Then she felt him move behind her, hugging her under her breasts, digging his chin into her shoulder. She felt his warmth embrace her, and lied lazily in his support. Together they watched the orange of the sun sink herself into the ocean, and the horizon changing to a dreamy hue of pink and red.

"I would marry you here," he said. She nodded curtly – the only sign of acknowledgement she could muster in her pensive, surreal state. For awhile more they stared as the gulls fly back to their nests with a noisy eagerness.

A fighter jet flew overhead, invading their peace with the loud, ominous drone of its engine, and at this Isaac frowned.

"I have something to tell you," he cooed into her ear. The girl shifted closer to him, beckoning him to say it. Isaac gulped. "I'm enlisting… into the flyers."

Her eyes widened. _What?_ She thought. _What do you mean, Isaac? Is this a joke? How could you! _It had to be a joke. She wanted it to be a joke. She needed it to be! But she knew it wasn't as he said his next words.

"I'm sorry. It's a guy thing."

And she felt the rain come down on her, sinking her world beneath its relentless, choking patter.

Eighteen metres underground, Izabel woke, summoned from her dream by the animated ringing of her ancient alarm clock. She motioned a hand along what she thought to be the surface of her table, and found the pair of steel bells atop the device, and laid a hand on them to drown the noise until she found the key at the back, and turned it. The noise stopped completely. She stood up from her swivel chair, wiping drops of sticky liquid off her eyes, and then she grabbed a towel from her cabinet, and entered the lavatory.

She wanted to see her charge, even though it was a Sunday.

Finishing her bath she dressed, and then made her way out the bunker into Lodonia's lifeless courtyard, where there was no freshness, where the air was always stale, always cold, always having a faint tinge of death in its heavy presence. It made many dizzy, and almost no one opted for a morning jog outside the laboratory gym; but still Izabel braved it, making her way through the courtyard pass sad little shrubs of yellow grass and other forms of underdeveloped growth. There were no insects, no birds in flight.

A ten minute walk later, she arrived at Auel's dormitory, and the guard (the sex-deprived guard, as she knew him to be) directed her toward the court behind the building. "It's their wank day," he said, "and they use it to ball." She tried hard to ignore what he implied, and thanked him cordially.

At the back of the old buildings was a pair of basketball courts, upon which many heads with unusual coloured hair stood, sat, or limped lethargically, observing those whom were moving. Some had turquoise, some magenta, and some even khaki coloured hair. So odd, so unnatural they were that Izabel thought of the irony that they should be considered _Naturals_, like herself. Running about on the basketball court was Auel, who she had wanted to see. She stood at the iron grilled fence, following him as he ran around the court, with her arms folded. The only other person with a natural shade of hair present was the African guardsman, who sat against the fencing on a stool with a pistol in hand and a pack of cigarettes in the other.

"You must be Izabel," an unfamiliar voice said. Izabel was taken by surprise, and jumped. The owner of the voice was an older boy, or man, as his pronounced features seemed to suggest, half a head taller than her. "I'm sorry," he said, "I was just bored. It's pretty difficult reading here with all the noise." She noticed a paperback on the floor, lying open like a triangular block over the lips of its pages. "You've been watching Bluey since you stood there, and from his description of his nanny, I guessed it was you." He smirked, running a hand through his turf of olive-green hair.

Izabel watched as Auel stole the orange ball from a boy with white hair and ran toward the other side of the court. Two others stood in his path, but he dodged them skillfully, and after two great leaps, he jumped into the air and dropped the ball into the hoop and net. His teammates exchanged slaps on the back; Izabel cheered for him silently in her heart, though she frowned. Auel had jumped a height close to his own by his own strength; no regular boy his age could match a feat like that. But then again, Izabel didn't know how old he was.

"He's changed a lot because of you," the man said again. He spoke with a dignified tone and articulation, and had an odd accent she had never heard before. Izabel asked him who he was, and he said his name was Orga Sabnak, though it wasn't the name he was born with. "I would shake your hand if the holes in the fence were larger, but they aren't, so I'm afraid you'll have to pardon me for that."

She nodded. "You're different from them," she said, matter-of-factly.

"Yeah," he said, laughing. "I was a free man once, but I was sentenced to death two years back for a crime I can't remember I committed. Was given a choice to have my spine snapped on a noose or a short visit to semi-hell. So yeah, I took the latter, and here's where I am now.

"It's the same for Orange over here," he pointed at a boy with shocking orange hair sitting beside him, a handheld console in his hands. His eyes were fixed on the flashing screen, his fingers tapping on the plastic buttons in frenzy. "They named him Clotho, but he doesn't want to be called that. Sounds like crotch, he says, but I can't find the connection for the life of me!" He shook his head in mock upset. "Must be one of those things I'll never understand."

"They don't let you remember your past?"

Orga rolled his eyes. "Of course not," he said, as if the answer was obvious. "Did Mao Tze Dong give educated people a right civic freedom? No, because freedom, education and other idealisms were liabilities to him. And liabilities must be gotten rid of for efficiency and convenience, just like my past, just like my name." His face turned rock hard. "Genocidal machines can't afford to have liabilities."

Izabel said nothing. Her eyes returned to the basketball court, where another team had risen to challenge Auel's. She followed the emerald of his eyes, the way they stared at those who faced him. They were the same eyes; the same determined, challenging gaze which won her heart before. "But he is not him," she muttered to herself. "Not him."

"So as I said before, he's changed a lot. Ever since he met you, I suppose," Orga said, watching him play as well. "He swears less often, and looks less feral. Could it be… say… kindness?" His tone was mocking; Izabel chose to ignore him, but he went on. "It's really kind of admirable, you know? Showing kindness to a lab rat? You deserve an award for it. I'm not saying I'm not happy for him, but I was just curious. Why?"

"I'm pretty sure that's none of your business, Mr Sabnak," Izabel sneered.

Orga laughed. "My apologies yet again. I think my mother used to tell me my words went awry all the time, but I assure you, it wasn't on purpose."

Izabel watched Auel maneuver around his opponents again, grinning and yelling as the ball was passed between his companions. He grabbed the ball, and with more jumps and tosses and leaps, the ball was netted. Only this time, someone had been used as a launch pad for his jump, and that person faced Auel as he got to his feet, unhappy. He approached Auel and pushed him on the chest, and Auel pushed him back.

An argument ensued. An excited crowd gathered around them as they quarreled and shouted, and Izabel worried, though Orga said that incidents like this were common. After a while they gave up talking, and they pushed and pulled at each others shirts, until Auel tripped the other boy and drove him onto the floor with a thud.

"Whoo," Orga whistled. "That was nice."

Auel stepped out of the crowd and began walking toward the exit. Izabel noticed that the fallen boy was standing up again, and in his hand, a grimy shard of glass was held. A murderous look was in his eyes, and he growled silently under his breath, and then he charged at Auel, taking steps in strides.

_Why are they saying nothing? Why aren't they trying to warn him?_ Izabel thought, looking at the indifferent crowd. She panicked, and her heartbeat quickened, faster and faster, and then she screamed, "Auel! Behind you!"

Auel did not appear to have noticed her, but seemed prepared for the attack. He spun around and caught the shard in his hand. They wrestled fiercely again, pushing back the dirt under their feet, but the guardsman blew his whistle, and a gunshot resounded in the air. It was as if with the fading of the thunderclap, their furies went with it; and they backed down and walked away with their faces glowing crimson.

Izabel ran to meet him. "Are you okay?" She looked at the hand which caught the shard: it was stained in a web of red, dripping slowly. Auel shielded his hand away from her eyes, and looked away.

"Listen, I'll go to the infirmary and get you some bandages and meds', you just—"

"Shut up!" he yelled, to her surprise. "Don't talk to me!" And he ran from her, toward the dormitory. The crowd who had seen them laughed.

Orga came up behind her, laughing heartily as well, saying, "Bravo! Bravo! You're a first, Izabel! A definite first!"

Izabel was mute, looking dumbly at the ground.

"I can't believe you did that! Good thing you're not one of us, we'd have killed you by now." He paused. "Oh well, he's going to be feeling upset for awhile."

"Why?" Izabel muttered.

"Eh?"

"Why?" Izabel repeated, louder this time. "What's wrong with him?"

Orga laughed again. "Because you made him look like he cheated! You tipped him off, made him look like a puss in front of everyone. Of course he'd be angry!"

"But that boy was trying to kill him!"

"Do you really think people who get physically abused every other day of their lives will give it up to a simple glass shard? Come on, Izabel, you work here! You should know better than that." He shook his head again, in the same mocking manner he did before. "But I understand what how you feel. Don't worry about it. It won't last longer than a week. Just a guy thing."

"A guy thing," she said under her breath. "Right." And she made her way back toward the bunker, leaving the smiling Orga behind.

-----

A bright electronic chime woke Hendrik from his slumber. He blinked and opened his eyes, only to see the blackness of his unlit room, absolute save for a small green werelight which shone over the back door, indicating the emergency exit. There were no windows. "Hold on a sec'!" he called out to his visitor as he pressed a button on the headboard, and instantly light banished the darkness, making visible the clutter which was Hendrik's room. He got off his bed, found a pair of trousers and put them on. He answered the door and discovered it was Izabel, armed with a large bag and a faint smile.

"Were you sleeping? I'm sorry," she said, noticing his black hair in a mess. He shook his head, and welcomed her in.

"I brought lunch. Just some stuff from yesterday and the day before, but I figured it'd be better than what you eat everyday." She pointed at the empty wrappers of cereal bars and coffee cans which decorated his table.

Hendrik thanked her. They made small talk as they removed the containers from the bag and set them down on the floor, revealing a feast of salads, baked eggplant pie and potato and tapioca flakes to compliment their meals. Hendrik picked up a box of noodle casserole and grimaced. He poked at it with his spork as Izabel chewed on her vegetable pizza leftover from the night before.

"It's all rabbit food," Hendrik muttered, staring idly at his meal. "Ah, sorry. I didn't mean to complain." Meat in their rations was as scarce as gold in a river, most of it being given to the soldiers and pilots. One would be lucky to find a can of luncheon meat or corned beef included in the package they got. Even receiving a can of sausages would have been akin to winning the lottery. "It's just that… just a little tired."

Izabel giggled. "We just started eating and already we've apologized to each other two times," she said, staring blankly into the unkempt interior. It resembled her own room's. "It was never like this with Isaac. He'd always laugh and spit while we ate, and we'd always quarrel and fight over things," she paused, and resumed nibbling the soft wet pastry. "Now it's the same with him."

Hendrik understood who 'him' was immediately, and said, "If that kid's causing you any trouble, I can have him detained and disciplined—"

"No, no. It's not that," she said, interrupting him. "It feels like… like we're awfully detached. I don't get him, and he doesn't get me."

Hendrik blinked. "I see."

They continued to eat for some time, opening more containers with salted potato and tapioca flakes. Then Izabel asked, "Hendrik, what is 'a guy thing'?"

Hendrik looked at her, confused. "Huh?"

"When I tried to stop Isaac from joining the force, he stopped me, telling me it was 'a guy thing'. I tried to warn Auel about an attacker just now at the dorms, and now he hates me for it. And that too was 'a guy thing'." She stopped, and she sighed. "You're a guy too, right? What is 'a guy thing'?"

Hendrik sat silently for a while, mindlessly poking at his meal again,

Musing like a mantis. Then he said, "Have you read 'The Deed' by Jossef van Gurg?"

Izabel gave a nod. "Of course. Isaac wrote that book. I helped him edit it." She remembered her time with him in the apartment they shared, sitting and scanning through a mess of paper sprawled over the floor. "It never did sell."

"Do you remember the first lines of the prologue?"

"I must have read it a thousand times: _And by sword he swore his life to service, lest by might his crown be broken, or by darkness his soul forsaken. _It's the vow of the Silent King, who sacrificed his tongue and eyes to protect his people, although I never did understand how a blind-mute would be able to rule. But yeah, that was it."

"That's the guy thing," Hendrik said, nonchalantly.

Hendrik continued with his food, assuming Izabel understood his meaning. When they had finished, the host picked up the containers and brought them to his cluttered sink in the lavatory, where he washed them diligently with soap. When he returned he carried a round pot of steaming black liquid.

"I'm afraid I didn't catch you earlier," Izabel said. "Could you, erm, elaborate on that?"

Hendrik sat the washed containers down on the floor and retrieved a pair of mugs from his desk. "It's easy to distinguish, but hard to define, Izabel. It's not something you encounter everyday." He put on his spectacles, and his gazed shifted to the wooden book case, looking at the spines of books he had brought for his home. "It's what the Fellowship of the Ring had when they walked toward the gates of Mordor in 'The Lord of the Rings'; it's what Darth Vader had when he betrayed Sidious in 'Star Wars'. It's courage, and it is foolishness; it's sacrifice, and it is throwing away. It's what we give and die in return. It's when others and honour are above one's own life. It's just… well, a guy thing." He scratched his head sheepishly. "Coffee?"

Izabel was silent as Hendrik the served the beverage in the two white mugs, and she sipped it, letting the boiling sweet drink burn the edge of her tongue. She was confused. It had no logic, no reason. But she knew that not everything could be put in words or explained, more so the things of gods, even more so the things of humans. In her heart she promised herself to accept it, no matter what it was, no matter how absurd. She had been selfish once, refusing to see him when he departed. She would not make the same mistake again.

"I'm going to apologise to him," she said, full of determination, and Hendrik nodded, saying, "See'ya later."

She got up and made her way toward the door, but before she could leave, an urge came into her, and she said, "If only they were more like you." Then she left.

And alone once again in the four walls of his quiet, white room, Hendrik's face went rock hard. "Maybe because I'll never be as much a man as he was," he whispered to himself. He finished his coffee, and booted up his computer to work.

-----

She thought it was best to bring him a gift, and so before she visited him again, she went to her room and picked up a hardbound book from a pile on the floor. Now in the dormitory again, she walked passed the familiar floors and rooms, until she reached Auel's. She knocked.

"C- coming!" she heard Auel from the inside. She heard him scuffling around the room, tossing around what sounded like paper. Then the din stopped, and the footsteps got more elaborate as he approached. He opened the door looking like he had just ran a marathon, face full of perspiration and anxious.

"Mother, I– I'm sorry. I dunno' why I shouted at you back there. I felt so angry, I dunno' why, but I felt that way and I screamed. It wasn't on purpose, I swear! I promise I'll— "

"Auel, Auel! It's okay," she said, amid his panicked chain of words. She was stunned by his actions, expecting him to be angry. "I'm not here to send you to the slammer."

"I'm ready for… you're not?"

"No. It's okay, really," she said, still standing at the doorway. "Can I come in?"

Auel jumped. "S– sure!" He scurried around like a rat, lifting stacks of paper and pencils from his bunk and throwing them into the corner where his pile of clothes sat. Then he poured water from his jug and offered it to her in his cup. Izabel thanked him, and kindly rejected the yellowish water. When he had tossed everything obstruction away he sat on the floor cross-legged, offering the comfort of the mattress to Izabel.

"I've been reading like you told me to," he said, pointing to the stack of books still neatly piled at the corner of his little tea-table. "Green gave some to me."

"Orga, you mean? The tall guy who uses hard words when he talks?"

"Yeah, him. He doesn't hit me cause' I'm the only one who likes the books." He got up and took a large tattered volume from the table. "He gave me this deetionary too."

"I see."

For awhile longer they discussed the books Auel received from Orga. Though he looked to be relieved, he was cautious with his words, evident from his constant word corrections and answering her questions with simple head nods and turns.

"What's that?" he asked, pointing at the book Izabel carried.

"Oh, this, right," she said. "I almost forgot about it."

She looked at the cover of the book and flipped through its pages, not reading its words, but breathing the scent it let off as the pages slapped against each other, producing a small wind. Then she shut it and said, "It's for you."

Auel squeaked in delight. "What is it? What is it? Oh- I meant, erm, What is its title?"

"It's called 'The Deed', written by a man named Jossef can Gurg," she said, offering it to Auel. "It may be a little hard to read now, because of some of the hard words. So you'll probably have to use the dictionary and ask Orga for help."

Auel carefully took the book from Izabel and opened it. He pressed the fine white pages on his face, and smelt it, for it was the first book had received which wasn't at least a decade old. Turning a few pages, he read aloud: "And so he swore his lift to service, less by…"

Izabel watched him read, and felt content that he liked her gift. "I'm going back to the bunker now. Training's at eight o'clock tomorrow as usual."

"Wait," Auel said, laying down the book. He rummaged through the pile of stuff in the corner and pulled out a piece of paper, folded it. "Was gonna' give this to you tomorrow, but since you're already here." He gave it to Izabel. "Promise me you'll only open it when you're back home." There was hesitation in his voice.

Izabel nodded, and left the room. She felt relieved that she didn't have to apologize to him. "Good night."

"Good night."

In her room, Izabel opened the letter. All it said was:

_Sorry, sorry, sorry, sorry, sorry, sorry, sorry._

_Sorry, sorry, sorry, sorry, sorry, sorry, sorry._

_Sorry, sorry, sorry, sorry, sorry, sorry, sorry._

_Sorry, sorry, sorry, sorry, sorry, sorry, sorry._

_I'm sorry, mother. I can't be anymore sorry._

_It feels so bad saying sorry, but I know I must._

_If this is not enough, I will say some more._

_So please forgive me, please, please, please._

Izabel smiled, and she felt hints of tears form at her eyes. _A guy thing_, she thought. _A coward like me will never understand._

--------------------

**A/N – **Another great big thanks to everyone who read and reviewed. Your words have brought me back to this piece, which I have finally found the resolve to complete. Hope you've enjoyed reading!

**Note:** **maskerade** my **BEST FRIEND** was unavailable to read through this chapter before it was posted, so I fear there might be a need for change to it in the next few days. Don't worry though, I don't intend to change the plot, probably will just some adjustments to the grammar and stuff.


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